From releasing the album of 2021 to securing a nomination for the Mercury Prize, it’s been a colossal year for the Plaistow-born MC. Almost two decades into his career, the 37-year-old is at the peak of his powers, finally receiving the critical and commercial attention his blistering output has long warranted. So, as he sits down to reflect on a remarkable 12 months, it begs the question: how does he follow this up?
Text: Niall Flynn – Photography: Spencer Murphy
CHAPTER 1
GHETTS IS RIFLING DOWN THE ROAD ON HIS TRUSTY quad bike, its engine a crackling, cacophonic roar.
Without slowing, he leans back, foot hooked around the metal bar attached to the vehicle’s rear, and pulls up into a triumphant wheelie. He holds it there, two wheels aloft, and continues charging forward at full pace. It is a display of exceptional balance, and onlookers respond with a series of appropriate observations: ‘Fucking hell!’ Or, ‘He’s mad.’ The 37-year-old rapper – real name Justin Clarke – pays them no heed. As his speed decreases and he begins his descent, there’s a stillness to him; a clarity.
“My first encounter with quads? I’d have been about four or five,” he says, speaking the following day over a video call. “I always dreamt of getting one. In all honesty, I used to have bare stolen ones as a kid – stolen peds and shit like that would come through the manor. But then I got into a position where I could get my own, pay for it properly, and do it the right way. It’s very therapeutic being on it, two wheels in the air. You feel mad free.”
Yesterday afternoon was the first time in a while that Ghetts had been out on the bike. A relentless work ethic dictates that most of his waking hours are spent within the confines of the studio – he prefers to spend the downtime he does have during busy creative periods with his kids. But we’d been out at an industrial estate around an hour’s drive from the town he lives in, getting some photos for this issue’s cover shoot. It made sense to bring the quad.
The Plaistow-born MC had been high-speed company. One second he’d be cracking jokes, the next he was animatedly taking a phone call, then posing for portraits, bounding between groups, back on the quad, off it again, before pausing all of that to bemoan the area’s apparent rat infestation. “Fam, there’s three, four, five here!” he shouted, pointing into the bushes. “That one is the size of a fucking beaver, fam. That rat would move to a cat, I am telling you.”
Today, though, relaxing at home in a tracksuit, he’s in a more reflective mood. There’s plenty to reflect on, to
